


Crossroad

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:57:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every man has at least one moment of startling clarity that crafts hope from despair, creates a tomorrow out of today, and fearlessly snuffs out the candle of yesterday. What he chooses to do with it lies within himself.<br/>A different version of Ep.511</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossroad

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my lj 2012

BRIAN'S POV

  
      It was one of the rare moments in my life when I didn’t know what to do or say to make things right. That these unnerving lapses of higher brain function only occurred with a certain blond made me question my belief about coincidence being a crock of shit. Fuck! Who am I kidding? I’ve been second-guessing everything from the night I met him.  
                     
 _“Well, look who I ran into,” smirked Coincidence._  
                                                               _“Please,” scoffed Fate, “this was meant to be.”  A.Howell  
  
_       Don’t ever think your past won’t come back to haunt you. It can and it does, as Justin reminded me so succinctly and accurately— “You detest marriage. You detest anybody who enters into an imitation heterosexual union that by its very nature is doomed to fail. Did I get that right?”  
  
 _Nice job, Kinney! What was your answer,“Word perfect”? How’d it feel to have your words thrown back in your face? Did you honestly think he never listened when you spewed your bullshit? Or didn’t you care? Did you think he never heard? Never saw? He heard and saw everything—every cruel utterance and hurtful sentence, each sarcastic smirk and disparaging eyebrow. They’re all carefully tucked away in a mental file cabinet labeled Brian’s Hateful Things, filled to overflowing with your very impressive repertoire, by the way._  
  
      Somehow I had to make him understand that I didn’t ask out of shock or fear, that I didn’t ask him to marry me because of the bombing. I asked him as a result of it. What I could have lost was a sobering kick in the gut. The scariest thing about finding someone is the possibility you might lose him. It drove home what I had been trying to ignore, refusing to admit. I needed him in my life. When I told him that I wanted him safe and around for a long time, I guess I really meant it.  
  
      He’s the only one who ever made an effort to really see me. With him, I feel as if I matter. When he looks at me, the warmth of his smile tingles my skin and burrows in my bones. And...I kind of like the feeling. Even more surprising, I’m not scared or ashamed of liking it. Maybe that’s what happiness is.  
  
 _“Someone like you makes it hard to live without somebody else._  
                                          __Someone like you makes it easy to give and never think about myself.”  ©T.Hardin

        I  left the hole-in-the-wall he fondly calls his “studio” and started strategizing. I had to be relentless and keep up the pressure because he can be the most stubborn twat on the planet at the most inopportune times. Fuck! I even sent him flowers and heard from his bouncy female friend that the ensuing waterworks rivaled Niagara Falls. Who says I can’t do romance when I want to. When I need to. When I have to.

      I wouldn’t leave him alone. Underfoot and Undertoe Kinney was my new name. I was a man on a mission. Nothing he said, and he said plenty, could change my mind. If anything, his nonstop protests and excuses made me more determined. The fact that they always turned into mere whimpers when my cock was balls deep in his ass only strengthened my resolve. To quote Shakespeare, “Me thinks he doth protest too much.”

      After endless debates of no vs. yes, why vs. why not, pro vs. con, I’d had enough. Time to end it once and for all.

                                                                                       ****

      He was, of course, immediately suspicious when I called asking him to the loft for dinner.

     “Why?”

     “Why what?”

     “Why are you asking me out to dinner?”

     “I’m not asking you out to dinner, I’m asking you _in_ to dinner.” Christ! Where the fuck was his 1500 SAT score when I needed it?

     “Are you feeling ok?”

     “Couldn’t be better!”

     “Then why are you acting like this?”

     “Like what?”

      There was a worrisome pause on the phone. Worrisome for me, that is.

     “Like a normal person.”

      Fuck him! I took a deep breath, two actually. He wasn’t making this easy. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I _am_ a normal person, relatively speaking.”

      From the snort at the other end, I could tell he didn’t believe me.

     “Okay.”

      That was it? A one word answer? “‘Okay’ what?”

     “Okay, I accept your invitation _in_ for dinner. What time do you want me to come?”

      Now it was my turn to snort. He left himself wide open for that one. “You’ll be coming more times than you can count, Sunshine.” I smiled when his breath hitched. He’s so easy to play. “But to answer your question, I guess around seven.”

     “Brian?”

     “What?”

     “You sure you’re all right?”

      There it was. I heard it¬—the uncertainty, the concern. I would have given my other ball not to hear it. Shit! “Don’t get your tidy whities in a knot! I couldn’t be more all right if I tried, so stop asking. See you at seven.”

                                                                                               ****  
      The evening had to be perfect. I methodically planned every last detail, not only to anticipate his usual maddening opposition, but also to prepare for the unexpected in case his frustrating logic reared its ugly head.

      Faced with all my shit from the past five years, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had to atone for trying to convince him to marry this poor shell of a man. How fucking on target is that description? I’m like an M&M candy or a Tootsie Roll pop, hard on the outside with maybe just a sliver of softness on the inside. Fuck! I _am_ good at my job! I can sell anything. But could I sell me? It was going to take a lot more than a snappy tag line or candy to win him over. Although with Justin, the candy might work.

 

                                                                      [](http://kinfic2.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/2432/36902)                                                                                                       

      After plying him with more food than humanly possible, we were almost finished with our second bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon when I decided it was time to hit my stash of weed. I’m not above using any means necessary to achieve my goals, an opinion also held by Mr. Taylor.

      Treasure box in hand, I weaved back to the table and raised my glass, recklessly declaring, “I propose a toast. To us, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall fuck.”

     “I’ll drink to that!” He staggered to his feet and clinked his glass against mine, sloshing the liquid over the rim. His enthusiasm decorated the empty plates with garnet splashes that could rival Jackson Pollock. Even drunk, he’s an artist.

      Putting a hand on the table to steady himself, he gulped the last of his wine. “Your toast was both fascinating and elusive, Mr. Kinney. A triumph of advertising copy.”

      I didn’t bother to answer. Anything I said would have started a verbal tennis match. Instead, I lit the newly rolled joint, inhaled with a quick double breath to keep the smoke inside, then passed it to him. He took a deep drag and sank back in his chair.

      Exhaling out the side of his mouth, he waved a languid hand at the haze. “So I’ve been thinking.”

     “Yeah?”

     “Yeah.” He closed his eyes and drew another deep puff, blowing the air out with enough force to make him look like a blond chipmunk. “About what you asked.”

     “You mean what I’ve been asking,” I corrected. Too much pot and alcohol had a habit of short-circuiting the neural pathways to his mouth. You had to play fill-in-the-blanks or twenty questions to get him back on track.

     “Yeah, that, too.”

     “And?”

     “And if we did what you proposed—”

      His eyes widened and he stifled a giggle at the double entendre, giving me an instant flashback of the innocent teenager who ate Cheerios and played Tomb Raider. So long ago.

_                                                        “All those wasted years, all those precious wasted years.  
                                                        Do we have to say goodbye to the past? Yes, I guess we do.” ©Peart,Lee,Lifeson _

      To his credit, he quickly composed himself and continued.

     “If we did it, you’d have to put up with all my shit, good and bad. And if I got sick, you’d have to take care of me. Are you ready to do all that? Are you _able_ to do all that?” he demanded.

      Did I also mention his brain takes some odd twists and turns when he’s high? I looked at him as if he had two heads. Given my current state, that wasn’t much of an exaggeration. In his condition, he probably didn’t notice.

     “What part of ‘for better or worse, in sickness and in health’ didn’t you hear?” I wrestled the joint from him. “Actually, I was kidding. I didn’t mean any of it. You make too much of a mess with all your shit, and if you had the sniffles, I’d toss you out. Whiny twats make my dick soft.”

      He wagged a waggy finger at me. “Cut it out! Nothing makes your dick soft!”

     “Okay, let me ask _you_ something.” I leaned closer and ran my thumb along the edge of his chin. “What would you do if _I_ got sick?”

      A thundercloud of pain shadowed his face. When I realized his mental leap from what was asked to what was left unsaid, my stomach churned. The hurt was there because of me.

      Anger surged like barbed wire through my veins at the audacious insanity to think he’d want to marry me. Why would he? My track record with him was pathetic at best, inexcusable at worst. I doubted I could ever be worthy of him. But regardless of the outcome, I had to take this to the end. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. Despite any qualms, I stuck to my guns, hurriedly backpedaling to lighten the mood. “I mean, I can be a real prick when I’m sick.”

     “Or any other time,” he quipped.

_Dodged another bullet, Kinney._

     “Point taken.”

      Out of the blue, he became solemnly sober, the unnerving kind of sober that ruled out any possibility of joking, which was bizarre considering how much shit was in his system.

     “I’d take care of you,” he whispered. “What part of ‘for better or worse, in sickness and in health’ didn’t _you_ hear?” The sheen in his eyes tore me to pieces.

     “Marry me.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I pulled him up and started backing him toward the bedroom. “I’m serious. Marry me,” I repeated, nipping at his ear lobe as we shuffled. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you to marry me.”

           _“Now that the weight has lifted, love has surely shifted my way. Marry Me, today and every day. Marry Me.”     ©P.Monahan_

      His eyebrows almost disappeared into his fringe. “Telling me? Your need to control everything and everyone never ceases to amaze me. Hell of a romantic bedside manner, Mr. Kinney.”

     “Oh, I think you’re already well-acquainted with my bedside manner, Mr. Taylor,” I murmured with a smirk, catching him as his calves hit the bed frame.

      He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Tell you what. I’ll seriously think about it.”

      That didn’t cut it. Weeks or months from now he’d still be thinking and we’d still be talking. “Nope, not good enough. I’m not waiting any more. Why don’t you make it easy on both of us and agree now? That way I don’t have to get all devious and sneaky.”

      I started undressing him, pulling his top off, and running my tongue down the side of his neck. He lifted his head to give me better access to his flesh, making those breathy noises that drive me crazy.

      As I made quick work of the rest of his clothing, a groan escaped his lips. “What,” he gasped, “are you going to do? Take advantage of me until I say yes? Tie me to the bed and put a ring on my finger? Or—”

      I kissed him quiet. Kissed him so thoroughly and deeply that his body shook and his eyes glazed over. With his leaking cock begging for attention, I couldn’t get my clothes off fast enough. I flung my shirt on the floor and yanked open the couple of buttons on my jeans that were closed. Covering him with my body, it was all I could do not to fuck him into the mattress. But this wasn’t about sex. It was about love.

     “Oh, you have no idea what I’m capable of doing. When I’m finished with you, you’ll sleep through anything.”  
                                                       
                                                                                                      ****  
      I wasn’t exaggerating. I savored every kiss and intimate touch. We didn’t fuck. We made love. Because of him, I’m lucky enough to know the difference. I took it slow and easy, trying to show, to explain how I felt about him, not through what I couldn’t say but through my actions. Words are bullshit. They mean nothing. I use them professionally like a dream weaver, spinning webs of illusion for my clients. In my personal life, they’ve been hollow and empty more times than I can count.

      Throughout the night, I claimed him over and over again, taking us to the edge and back until my dick and his ass begged for rest. Emotionally drained and physically exhausted, we succumbed to sleep, wrapped in our dreams and each other.

_“Come with me, somewhere in the night we will know everything lovers can know._  
        _I’ll play you over and over again._  
 _Loving so warm, moving so right, closing our eyes and feeling the light,_  
 _We’ll just go on burning bright somewhere in the night.”    ©Kerr/Jennings_

                                                                                                       ****  
      Like a scuba diver, I slowly surfaced from a murky sleep. I squinted at the lone ray of light that had targeted my face with morning sunshine and blinked myself awake. Amid a maze of rumpled sheets and tangled limbs, Justin slept in a boneless sprawl, a contented smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Before the need to piss overwhelmed me, I watched him breathe, comforted by the even rise and fall of his chest. With strands of straw colored hair fanned out over his pillow, he looked more like a fairytale princess than a highly sexual gay man. How many times I almost lost him forever by playing russian roulette with chance! If there’s a cosmic limit as to how many chances you get in life, I’m pretty sure I’ve reached my quota.

      I tossed back the duvet and gingerly eased off the bed. I don’t know why I was trying to be careful. He sleeps like the living dead. Short of dousing him with ice water or fucking him into consciousness, nothing wakes him up—except food. After taking a quick leak and brushing my teeth, I threw on a pair of jeans and padded to the kitchen in desperate need of caffeine to calm my nerves. Even a post orgasmic haze hadn’t been enough to keep me asleep. My mind raced all night. Maybe my grand plan wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe I was too aggressive. Maybe I....

      The aroma of freshly brewed coffee snapped me out of my introspection in the nick of time. Too much thinking was dangerous. It led me down roads I didn’t want to travel and often made me face things I didn’t want to face. Taking meditative sips, I paid attention to what my logical side was telling me. The risk was worth the reward.

      Knowing it wouldn’t be long before the smell wafted to the bedroom, I started preparing breakfast for sleeping beauty. In full disclosure, my definition of preparing means throwing packages of frozen blueberry pancakes and sausages in the microwave. Anything more complicated I leave to Justin and his inner Julia Child. As modern technology worked its magic, I put chilled orange juice, silverware, and a napkin on a tray. When the timer beeped, I replaced the food with the piece de resistance, maple syrup. I nuked it not only to warm it up but also to provide another irresistible layer of sensory persuasion, hoping that whoever coined the phrase, _The way to man’s heart is through his stomach_ , knew what they were talking about.

      There was nothing else for me to do except wait, which I don’t do very well. Trying to ignore the butterflies flapping in my gut, I busied myself with re-arranging the tray and filling his plate. I had the ridiculously hopeful idea that any miniscule whiff of food would trigger a subliminal thought like, _Oh, my God, he's making breakfast. I love him so much! I want to marry him!_ I had just grabbed the coffee pot when his screech almost shook it from my hand.

     “BRIAN! You are such a fucking shit! Fuck! Get in here and untie me, you bastard!”

      I grinned and poured the coffee into his cup.

     “Brian! I’m warning you, if you don’t un— Do I smell pancakes? And coffee? Fuck! You made breakfast?”

      His voice became more cajoling. “You didn’t have to tie me up to get me to eat what you cooked.” Little shit that he is, it turned manipulative and seductive. “You know I’d eat _anything_ you wanted to feed me. In fact—“

      I heard his joyous shriek in my bones, in every pore of my skin, in every strand of hair. The incredible sound of his exuberant laughter was music to my ears.

     “Fuck! Fuck! A ring? You put a fucking ring on my finger? You really did it! You mean it? I, God! You do, don’t you? Yes! Yes, okay? _Yes!_ ”

      My grin morphed into a full blown smile as I started toward the bedroom. I guess I had my answer.

                                                                                       ****  
      I know we don’t need the all important piece of paper to prove anything. But no matter how Stepford-like, it’s about letting everyone know how committed I am to him and most important, to show him that I believe in what we have, that I have faith in _us_. And although a part of me wants to stay Peter Pan forever, the predatory ticking of the clock won’t allow it. So rather than hanging around, waiting to get kicked out of Neverland, I’m leaving on my own terms.

      To reassure the naysayers and skeptics, my cock hasn’t shriveled up. It’s as enthusiastic as ever. Just ask Justin. He’ll vouch for it. I’m also not dreaming about houses with white picket fences. That really is a dick limper. And I haven’t lost my mind. Actually, I might have just found it. I figured out it’s okay to end up in a different place from where you began, even if it’s where you least expected to be.

      I can’t promise him never-ending happiness or never-ending monogamy, nor would I. But it _is_ within my power to promise him a future. Maybe not a happily-ever-after one, maybe one damaged with scars from the past, but at least one filled with hope and each other. Not perfect. But a start.

      And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m wanted and needed in the bedroom. I also have to begin searching for a country manor with stables and a pool.

_      “In the book of my memory, after the first pages which are almost blank, there is a chapter headed ‘Incipit vita nova’ [here begins a new life].”   D.Alighieri (La Vita Nuovo) _

                                                               ~FINI~


End file.
